


mouthing off

by jonphaedrus



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Age Difference, Come Eating, Cunnilingus, Fingerfucking, Lactation Kink, M/M, May/December Relationship, Mild S&M, Multiple Orgasms, Nipple Play, Omorashi, Overstimulation, Size Difference, Size Kink, Trans Male Character, Unsafe Sex, Vaginal Sex, Watersports, no betas we die like men, this is just real nasty tbqh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-18
Updated: 2018-01-18
Packaged: 2019-03-06 09:47:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13408653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jonphaedrus/pseuds/jonphaedrus
Summary: Ardashir is talking at him.





	mouthing off

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rethira](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rethira/gifts).



> i am not even going to begin to apologize for this, but i will go ahead and warn yall that this is REAL fucking nasty. this is some nasty stuff. its great.
> 
> happy birthday to my bestest most favorite <> in the whole entire world
> 
> edit: this got jossed because the xiv timeline is hot fuck and i thought ardashir was about 19 so if you wanna read it as being post-whatever point in the xiv timeline thatd be please go right ahead

Ardashir is talking at him. Which wouldn’t normally be any more annoying than it always is, but Gerolt has never been great at reading, and Jalzahn’s letters are nigh on as incomprehensible as his fucking talking, which is bad enough. And he can’t listen to Ardashir ramble and read Jalzahn and make any sense of either at the same time, so Gerolt grabs Ardashir by the waist and drags him over, picks him up, and sets the young man on his lap.

“I was _talking_ ,” Ardashir snaps, but Gerolt ignores him, tugs the laces out of the front of his breeches, pulls the opening wide wide, and slides his hand down Ardashir’s underclothes to grab his clit. Ardashir makes a strangled noise, claws at his wrist. “ _Gerolt_ —“

“I’m reading, so shut up for a minute, you little pest.” Ardashir isn’t actually angry enough to stop him, he never really cares, he just makes a scene for the point of it. He sags, leans, gets comfortable in Gerolt’s arms, and spreads his thighs so Gerolt can work. He’s not wet yet, so Gerolt leans over his shoulder to read. At first he just tugs a little bit, rubs the tip of one finger over the head of his clit, sliding beneath the hood. And then he starts pinching, tugging, rolling, to see how Ardashir wants it tonight.

Tonight, Ardashir moans loudest when Gerolt grabs his clit, pinches, and twists. So he does that, only _harder_ , a few more times, until the brat is bucking into his hand and sobbing. It gets him wet, though, which is what Gerolt wants. Ardashir always shuts up so much faster with something inside him—doesn’t matter which hole. He shuts up fastest with Gerolt’s big cock plugging up his throat like a cork, but Gerolt isn’t hard yet and doesn’t relish the idea of Ardashir complaining about a flaccid dick in his mouth. No, this is easier—as soon as Ardashir is wet, Gerolt stops reading for a minute to slide one finger inside him, his tiny tight cunt clenching down at the intrusion and his voice hitching, high in his throat.

Ardashir is so easy to take care of. His sex drive has been wearing Gerolt out to the point he barely even _drinks_ any more, but at least he’s easy to take care of. A finger in him and pinching his clit and he’s boneless, plaint, and blessedly fucking silent. Or, well, if not _silent_ , at least wordless. He might be yelling, but it’s not coherent.

Gerolt gets about five minutes of peace, and then Ardashir starts up again. “I could simply _read_ it to you,” he points out. “I could even translate what Jalzahn is saying rather than you attempting to prove you can translate it all on your own. I know that you have the capability but we have _other things to do tonight_ , Gerolt.”

Gerolt undoes the buttons of Ardashir’s coat, pushes his cravat aside, rucks up his shirt, and slides one hand in to grab his breast. He has tiny little bee-sting tits, barely anything at all, totally flat against his chest, but his nipples are long, hard, red, and so sensitive—when Gerolt pinches and squeezes, Ardashir’s words go slurry and he twists in Gerolt’s lap, writhing, grinding down against his cock, all whimpery and whiny and moaning.

So it goes, Gerolt leaning forward to peer at the letter from the old buffoon who reckons himself the realm’s best alchemist, and then Ardashir starts talking again, and so Gerolt slides another finger into him. It barely fits, mashed up against his tiny tight insides even when slick, but he makes due, curling them to stroke up over the inside of Ardashir’s cunt, right over the place that makes him shake and cry out. He swaps tits, pulling on the brat’s other nipple until he’s sweaty and shaking and his hands are white-knuckled on Gerolt’s thighs.

When he starts to tense up, though, like he’s going to come, a little slower since he wasn’t already mindlessly needing a fuck when they started, Gerolt eases off, stops playing with his tits, leaves his clit alone. He keeps his fingers inside Ardashir, though, not letting up. One of these days he’s going to get his cock all the way in Ardashir and break him wide open and watch him howl and twist and piss himself with his eyes rolled back in his head when he comes. Part of making that happen is keeping him stretched even when he’s whimpering and clenching down, digging his fingers deeper into Ardashir until they’re in up to the base knuckle and twisting them sideways to widen him the other way.

“Gerolt,” Ardashir whines. His nails dig into Gerolt’s thighs. “I’m—why did you stop,”

“I don’t want you squirting in your breeches,” Gerolt growls back. Ardashir goes still, and then sniffs, horrified.

“I,” he says, “Would _not_.”

“You fucking would, you did it two days ago, and I’m not cleaning up the floor.” Ardashir always makes such a mess. His cunt and ass might be vice tight but he can’t hold his piss, because he’s a disgusting mess. “Wait until I’m done.”

“Pull your hand out, then.”

Gerolt doesn’t. Instead, he stretches his pinky back to circle the pucker of Ardashir’s asshole, and gets the younger man’s breath hitching into a single sob. And he goes back to reading, still digging two fingers way up into him, pressing on his ass gently, the pucker pushing back, pulsing, breathing with Ardashir. He waits until Ardashir is calm, not quite about to come, before he grabs at his tit again, twisting his nipples until they’re all swollen under the callused pads of Gerolt’s fingers, until Ardashir is moaning to _please_ and _stop_ and he’s all slick again.

He finally finishes the letter.

“It’s trash,” he tells Ardashir. “Old bastard’s gone batty.”

“He’s _always_ been batty.” Gerolt hates how calm and collected Ardashir can sound, even when he’s just been moaning and keening for nearly twenty minutes, riding Gerolt’s hand like he’s about to burst, panting and gasping but still cool-headed. “Now he’s just senile.” Gerolt sometimes forgets why he likes Ardashir so much. It’s times like this, their mutual loathing for Jalzahn, that remind him. That, and the kid can suck cock like it’s a sport and he’s a champion. “Are you going to make me come or do I need to go deal with this mess myself?”

“Quit your whining,” Gerolt tells him, and he pulls his hands back, grabs Ardashir’s hips, and lifts the brat up off of his lap. Ardashir weighs nothing, nothing compared to iron and steel and hammers, so Gerolt can throw him around like a doll, and he dumps him onto the table.

In the dim half-light from the taper Gerolt was reading by, Ardashir’s eyes are so blown they’re black. His skin, pale, is heated the heady red of a good plum wine, and his lips are swollen from where he’s been biting them. His jacket’s fallen completely off to the table behind him, and his shirt is all rucked up above his tits, framing them, tiny and perky and red as hell.

Gerolt, not for the first time, feels a hot pulse of _something_ inside him when he thinks about what they’d be like swollen and heavy with milk. He’d spend _hours_ massaging them, making them stop being sore. He’d suck them dry. It’s become the fantasy he wanks to when he’s busy in Hyrstmill on kettles and Ardashir is off doing whatever the hell it is annoying smart-mouthed kids do—he sits in his cabin and fucks into his (not-tight-enough, now he’s felt what it’s like inside Ardashir) fist and thinks about Ardashir with his tiny tits bulging and heavy and soft, but no larger, his long, red nipples dripping milk, begging Gerolt to make them stop being so sore and achey. He would need a hand with them. He would need Gerolt’s _mouth_.

But now, Ardashir is on his table, kicking down his breeches, toeing off his shoes to the floor, and spreading his thighs, his hands planted on the wood. Gerolt grabs him by the hips and hauls him to the edge of the table, presses a kiss right at the dip of his sternum between his breasts, and then lifts him up off of the tabletop, hooks Ardashir’s knees over his shoulders.

“You couldn’t care less about my breeches,” Ardashir says, grabbing Gerolt’s head as Gerolt leans down between his legs, scraping his beard over Ardashir’s slender thighs. Gerolt’s hands reach all the way around them without stretching, and the hair on them is downy and almost-blond and soft, smooth, like his skin is. Gerolt loves it. He loves how soft Ardashir’s body is, and how _deadly_ sharp the precision of his mind. “You just want me to piss in your mouth.”

“Waste not want not,” Gerolt says, and spreads the lips of Ardashir’s cunt, slides two fingers back into him, and presses the heel of his palm just above the top of his pubic bone, against the bulge of his full bladder. Ardashir hardly needs help—he can’t hold it. He pisses when he comes, and Gerolt loves it. He loves seeing his partner, this internationally renown genius, gifted beyond all imagining, uptight and perfect and controlling and idealistic and _stiff_ soaked in his own urine, flushed and crying, his cunt dripping wet and his clit huge and hard. It gets Gerolt off just as hard as Ardashir’s puckered lips and tight throat and talented, silver tongue on his cock does, just to see him debased, humiliated, ruined. Gerolt would love to make Ardashir piss himself in front of all the stupid Sharlayan scholars.

Maybe then they’d see what a nasty, spoiled, disgusting child Gerolt has to put up with.

“Yes,” Ardashir moans when Gerolt gets his mouth on his clit, rocking up off of the desk into his mouth. This close to coming his clit is tiny and throbbing hard, and Gerolt licks under the hood, scraping his teeth over the top just to hear Ardashir wail, his voice cracking two octaves higher than he speaks. “Yes, Gerolt, please—“ his moans ratcheting up and up, keening wildly, holding onto Gerolt’s neck for dear life, heels digging bruises into the muscles of his back.

Gerolt loves eating him out. It’s not so much unlike making a weapon, where he has to do all the right moves at all the right time and the end result is beautiful—he has to curl his fingers just so, suck on Ardashir’s clit too fast and too hard, tongue-fuck him, dig his fingers into his clenching ass, abrade his thighs, and just make a _mess_ of both of them. He loves licking into Ardashir, feeling how hot and tight and soft he is inside, loves the slick mess Ardashir turns into for him. He loves the way that, for once, Ardashir stops knowing how to think or speak and everything that comes out is _praise_ for Gerolt.

“Your tongue is so good,” and “Oh, your fingers are so big, yes, fuck me with them more,” and “Please suck on my clit please suck on my clit thank you thank you thank you,” and “Oh, gods, I need to come, please, please let me, can I,” when he’s close, begging, his hips thrusting into Gerolt’s mouth.

Gerolt slides a third finger into him, turns them so he can press up hard on the inside of Ardashir’s bladder, digs his other hand in from the top, and slides his mouth so he can probe Ardashir’s urethra with his tongue, pressing into the hole. It’s tiny, but when he sucks on it, tongues over it, teeth scraping over the hood of Ardashir’s clit the younger man _shrieks_ , his voice shrill and cracking, and comes so hard he bucks up off of the table. He’s twisted, almost in agony, and he keeps riding the high, shaking, clenching so tight he forces Gerolt’s fingers all back out of him, not enough room.

And he pisses, too. Squirts right into Gerolt’s mouth, hot and sweet. It’s perfect, he loves it, groans into Ardashir’s mound and presses down harder to get him to pee more, hot spurts of his own ejaculation right into Gerolt’s mouth, rolling his hips down and shaking as he tries to get away, moaning mindlessly. He’s gone over the edge and into another, and Gerolt starts to lap him clean, chasing trembling, slides his fingers back into Ardashir, digs his thumb into his urethra, pinches the sensitive skin between thumb and forefinger, tugging _out_ on him.

“Gerolt, I can’t—“ Ardashir starts, and Gerolt hums, bites none-too-gently on his clit, and sends him over the edge again, _forcing_ his hand to stay in this time, stroking over that spot inside Ardashir that makes him tremble and moan.

“Keep thinking about getting my whole fucking hand in your tiny cunt,” Gerolt murmurs, twisting his fingers, scissoring them, pulling Ardashir open, as wide as he’ll get. “And fucking you with my fist. Then we’ll see how tight you are after I’m done.”

“Fuck,” Ardashir swears, and cries as he rolls into another, his knees hitched up past Gerolt’s head, digging into his skull, while Gerolt keeps eating him out, sucking on his clit and watching his face as it turns ugly and red and sweaty, his hair come loose and plastered to his face and neck and shoulders and chest.

He’s so beautiful. So perfect and fucking beautiful, inside and out. He’s so smart he could take the whole world over and half the shit that comes out of his mouth Gerolt doesn’t even think is words, but he is perfect. And this perfect, star-brilliant spoiled brat is _Gerolt’s_ , every day of every week. He loves it.

“Stop, fuck you,” Ardashir finally manages, voice shaking, shoving on Gerolt’s head. “Stop it. Fuck.” Gerolt leans back, breathless, into the chair, lets Ardashir’s legs slide back down off of his shoulders, and Gerolt watches as he lays sprawled boneless in his dishabille on the tabletop, idly pulling stray hairs from where they’ve stuck to his skin. Ardashir, he thinks, often enough, is most beautiful like this, when all his walls come down and he’s just himself.

Ardashiver eventually sits up to shuck his shirt, and Gerolt’s own nipples twinge in sympathy at how red and swollen he’s left Ardashir’s. Gerolt will make it up to him later—maybe when they go to bed he’ll pin Ardashir down into the sheets and worship his tits until he comes just like that without even a hand on his clit. Gerolt can wrap around behind him and slide his thigh between his legs afterward, grind up into him, let Ardashir ride the friction and shake apart in his arms with his poor achey little tits all swollen in Gerolt’s hands.

“Ugh,” Ardashir says, as Gerolt shoves his own pants down, pulls his cock out. “You really made a mess; I need to go piss properly.”

“Have to drink more first,” Gerolt points out. Ardashir drinks a lot more these days, since Gerolt likes making him squirt when he comes. Ardashir scowls at him, reaches for his cock with his feet.

Ardashir’s feet are smaller than his cock.

Gerolt really likes that.

He rubs the sole of one foot over the head of Gerolt’s cock, nudges the other up the underside, and Gerolt thrusts up into it, grunting. It’s nice, nice to see Ardashir back in control of everything again after Gerolt’s broken him down, and he sneers when Gerolt swears under his breath.

“This is silly,” he says, sliding off of the table and onto Gerolt’s lap, straddling his hips. He grabs the back of Gerolt’s neck in one hand, his shoulder in the other, for balance, and leans up to kiss him. “You taste like piss,” Ardashir mutters when they break.

“No shit,” Gerolt replies, grabbing his narrow hips. He can—almost—wrap his hands around Ardashir’s waist. It’s such a near thing he sometimes tries to stretch it. Ardashir tilts his hips back, pressing his feet against the back of Gerolt’s chair, and slides forward, shifting back and forth to get Gerolt’s cock nestled up in the lips of his cunt, still hot and wet even after Gerolt cleaned him up. It feels so fucking good—he’s like burning velvet down there, sucking and slick, and the sounds that Gerolt’s cock makes sliding through Ardashir’s slick and piss and his own saliva are positively obscene.

Gerolt just sets the pace he wants back, Ardashir gasping encouragements into his mouth, pulling him down and closer and clenching against him. Every time he pulls the younger man up and the head of his dick grinds over Ardashir’s clit he makes this little punched-out noise and quivers. Gerolt chases that, making Ardashir shake all over as he chases his own high. When he’s getting close, thrusting and grinding and tasting the heat of it in the pit of his stomach, he lifts Ardashir up.

“In you, want to be in you,” Gerolt says, and Ardashir grabs his shoulders.

“Yes, yes,” he says, and opens himself with his other hand, spreads his lips as wide as he can. Gerolt lines him up and then tugs him down, and the first stretch makes Ardashir sob, crying out, his eyes wide and his throat bobbing. He stills, stretching, making room, and then—

And then the head, just _barely_ the head, of Gerolt’s dick pops into him. He thrusts up, _up_ , into Ardashir, and the younger man is shaking, swallowing, drooling from his open mouth. He’s pressing the heel of his hand to his stomach, to where Gerolt is breaking him open. They still haven’t managed to get him all the way onto Gerolt’s dick (and not for lack of trying) but even this is so much. He’s so fucking tight and hot inside that Gerolt’s eyes are crossing. It’s like flipping a switch inside, fucking Ardashir’s teeny tiny little cunt. Everything is too much all at once, and Gerolt is so close to coming he’s not sure he’s breathing.

“Yes,” Ardashir whimpers, biting his swollen lower lip, tears dripping over his cheeks, “Oh, yes, Gerolt, put it in me, fucking. Come in me, I want you to come in me, I want—“

Gerolt kisses him, feels Ardashir grab at the back of his head, arch up into him, his tiny hard nipples brushing against Gerolt’s chesthair, the friction making Ardashir shudder, and then grabs his hips and abruptly jerks him _down_.

It’s like fucking one of those fake-vaginas, all soft rubber inside a tube, only _tighter_ , impossibly tight. Ardashir weighs nothing and he’s hot and tight as sin, and Gerolt fucks him as hard and as fast as he wants, digging deeper and deeper as Ardashir’s eyes roll back in his head and he grins wildly, panting a mantra of _yes yes yes yes yes ruin my cunt come on fucking ruin it_ and Gerolt finally pulls him as far down as he’ll go, until he stops, and presses their foreheads together.

“Fucking,” Gerolt manages, and comes inside him. Ardashir’s breathing is hysterical, and in the morning Gerolt is going to have welts on his back and neck from his nails. Gerolt keeps coming, his cock _hurting_ from how tight Ardashir is, pulling out and fucking in again a little deeper. They kiss, sloppy and wet, and then again, as Gerolt pulls him a little lower, moves his hand over to feel the bulge of his cockhead inside of Ardashir.

“No deeper,” Ardashir whimpers. “I can’t,” Yet, _yet_ , they both know it’s a matter of _yet._ Gerolt’s cock is bigger around than the widest part of Ardashir’s hand, and he can almost get that in himself. Soon enough. “I love your cum,” he whimpers, kissing Gerolt again.

“Gotta piss,” Gerolt tells him, after he’s finished. Ardashir starts to say “Pull out,” but Gerolt ignores him, and pisses inside him instead, pinches his clit, and _pulls_.

And it’s like that he gets to watch Ardashir come apart, screaming with want, his red nipples bouncing, as Gerolt pisses inside him, filling him up, making his cunt so full he can probably feel it.

When Gerolt does pull out, urine and semen drip between Ardashir’s legs, splattering the chair, to the floor. All over Gerolt’s pants, too.

“I thought,” Ardashir says, as Gerolt coaxes him back onto the table, spreads his thighs, goes down to clean up the mess he just made (his favorite part, when he can slide three fingers inside Ardashir’s cunt after he’s wrecked it with his cock, and can taste himself mixed with Ardashir’s own slick and cum, and eat him out until he’s all loose and pliant again), “You said you didn’t want to make a mess of my breeches.”

“ _Yours_ ,” Gerolt replies, sliding his tongue between his fingers to get his cum out of Ardashir. “Never said shite about mine.”

Afterward, when Ardashir has left, trembling on wobbly knees like a newborn fawn, naked and slightly bow-legged and wincing with every step, Gerolt picks up the letter from Jalzahn, which has now been rendered almost illegible in the most part from the sheer amount of bodily fluid that’s smeared the ink. The last sentence is still legible, though—just enough to see that Jalzahn has written that if Gerolt has any requests for an alchemist of his calibre, to send them over.

Gerolt has an idea.

 _You old fuck,_ he writes, _can you make a ploughing potion that gets tits milky_.

Nobody ever said he was poetic.

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr, twitter @jonphaedrus


End file.
